His Last Bow: A Post- Reichenbach Fic
by pidgie88
Summary: John finally has Sherlock back. But he only has a short period of peace before Sherlock is revealed to the public and crimes- crimes that mysteriously ceased when Sherlock was gone- begin to occur. At first they seem unconnected, but soon things start to get all too familiar...
1. Chapter 1

**Hey! **

**This is my first story...so. Reviews are lovely, as are favorites and follows. I will try to update as often as I can, but I go to a charter school( i.e. lots of studying) so if my science teacher decides to pop a ****surprise test on us and i have to study all night...it can't really be helped. I'm also not really sure how long this fic will be. However, I like really long ones, so this'll be one too, probably. **

**Well, anyway, read!**

**-Alex**

* * *

CHAPTER ONE- ALONE  
In which John is alone.

It was fall. It was the first week of November and leaves were crunching under his feet and giving magnificent showcases of their flying talent. It was somewhat warm today-for London, that is- anyone in his place would say that it was a beautiful day, but it was completely lost on John Waston.  
It had been three years. When he had gone to his therapist- that first time- she told him it would be hard to get over HIM. But three years? Why- when Mrs. Hudson had started to clean out HIS room- why had he told her to keep the skull? Why had he convinced the morque to give him that scarf- that scarf that smelled of dust and cigarette smoke and running through the streets of London- when now he couldnt even stand to look at it?  
And why, for the love of God, WHY, did he take daily trips to THAT restraunt- the one they went to the exilerating first night- and sit in THAT booth- when it hurt so much?  
That was where he was headed now. He wanted not to go- but then again, he also wanted to get rid of the skull and the scarf- but that wasnt going to happen.  
He sat down at the booth and mindlessly ordered the same meal he ordered every single day, and ignored the concerned look the waiter gave him every single day. Usually when he came here he would just eat and leave, because that was all he could handle- but today something compelled him to turn his back- look out the window- and he saw something that made his breath hitch.  
That familiar coat- those dark curls brushing an ivory neck- no scarf, he noticed absentmindedly- but somehow just those ebony swirls against alabaster made John lurch out of his seat- leaving his cane behind, because of course his limp had come back- and run out of the shop, run in the direction he saw the tall figure go- but it was gone, and John realized it probably wasnt even there in the first place.

Sherlock caught his breath in the alley next to the restraunt, and hoped despretley that John wouldnt look in this alley, because he honestley didnt know what he would do if that happened.  
He heard John walk into the opening of the alley, and he held his breath when he saw Johns profile. John looked away from the alley then turned his face Sherlocks direction, and Sherlock pressed himself flat against the bricks until he heard the click of Johns heels turn away and dissapear.  
He had meant to keep his distance, just watch to make sure John was safe, but it had been three years, and he couldnt help wanting to get closer. He was just about to walk away when he heard the restraunts door open and he knew John had seen him, and he ran.  
Tomorrow was three years to the day since the Fall, and Sherlock was having trouble controlling himself. Yesterday he had climbed into 221B just to see it, and he just barely got out when Mrs. Hudson opened the door.  
He had been putting it off for far too long, but he couldnt imagine what Johns reaction would be, and that scared him- the not knowing.

John limped slowly back to the restraunt. He had been sure that was HIM, but he had to let it go. Go through the motions, John, he told himself. Ask for the check. Get your cane, thats a good man. Now call a cab. Go home.  
Walking inside 221B, he couldnt help himself. He limped inside his room and pulled the scarf out from underneath his bed. Pressing it to his face, he inhaled the scent that he had been craving for three years. He wasnt sure how long he sat there- it mightve been minutes, hours, days, for all he cared, but he didnt move until Mrs. Hudson came in and put a hand on his shoulder and a cup of tea on the sidetable. He didnt open his eyes until she- and the scarf- were gone.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO- THE RETURN

In which Sherlock returns, and Mrs. Hudson interrupts something important.

The next morning, as soon as he made sure that John was in a cab and Mrs. Hudson was out, Sherlock snuck into the flat. He knew today was the day. He had made all the plans, but he still wasnt ready. He needed to do something first.  
He walked inside Johns room, and, after rummaging around in the wardrobe for a bit, he found what he was looking for. He slipped the oatmeal colored sweater over his head, and chuckled when he found that it was too big for his slender frame. Next he searched the flat until he found his violin- horribly out of tune, but he was touched that John had kept it. He made himself a cup of tea, placed his skull on the mantle, and hung his scarf on the back of the door. Sighing, he sat down in his chair, sent the text, and settled down to tune his instrument.

John jumped when his phone vibrated. No one ever texted him anymore, not since... He pulled out his phone and froze when he read it.  
221B Baker Street. Come at once if convienent.  
Just as he finished reading, another text made his phone vibrate.  
If not convienent, come anyway. SH  
John was frozen in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at those two letters. He couldnt breathe, but somehow he managed to stick his hand out into the street and call a cab anyway.  
"Where to?"  
"Baker Street. 221B Baker Street."

When Sherlock saw the cab pull in front of the flat, he picked up his violin and started to play a tune he mustve played a million times before the Fall. He had to make sure John would recognise it.  
He heard the door open, and he swallowed the nerves gathering in his throat.

John heard the music as soon as he entered the flat, and it sent chills down his spine. It grew louder as he walked up the stairs, but he hesitated before opening the door.  
When he did, he had to stop.  
There he was, facing the window, but John didnt have to see his face to know it was him. It was all so familiar- the posture, the fluid movement- but John realized that his memory hadnt done him any justice.  
He wanted to speak, he wanted to sing, he wanted to dance around the flat.  
But all he could manage was a name- a name that he had not allowed himself to speak, or even think, for three years.  
"Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned around, and he had to swallow again when he saw Johns face. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but he hadnt planned for this. He hadnt predicted how grief- stricken Johns face would be, nor had he foreseen the pain that bled from every wrinkle and crease.  
He was almost glad when something happened that he WAS expecting.  
The punch was so forceful that it sent him stumbling back until the back of his calves touched his chair. It took most of his strength to keep from falling into it.  
"Thats for all the pain you put me through!"  
Sherlock winced at the volume. He had planned for this, though, he knew what to d-  
And once again, John surprised him.

John hugged Sherlock tighter, his fingers splaying out against Sherlocks back. He was at a perfect angle to see ebony curl over the collar of the tan sweater Sherlock was wearing, and it made his voice crack when he spoke.  
"And thats for my miracle, you bastard," he whispered.  
He felt Sherlock take a shaky breath. "Im sorry, John, Im so sorry," he said into Johns shoulder. "I didnt mean for it to take this long," Something wet soaked through Johns shirt, and he froze. Tears? Sherlock never cried. It wasnt his forté.  
John pulled away, and Sherlock held on tighter for a split second, as if trying to stop him, but then let go. John realized that Sherlock had fallen into his chair, and John was kneeling before him. Ignoring the disadvantage, he reached up and wiped away a tear just as it slipped from a sea-blue eye. He made to take his hand away, but it was stopped by Sherlock as he held it to his cheek, closing his eyes.  
Johns eyes widened and he didnt realize that he was getting up and leaning towards Sherlock.  
Their faces were about five inches apart when Mrs. Hudson screamed.

* * *

**Okay, about the tears. One of my friends was a bit confused about why SHERLOCK was the one crying, because she felt like John would be more likely. So, here's my logic.**

**John truly ****believes Sherlock is dead. He may not be happy about it, but I think that if Sherlock really were dead, then, eventually, John would've moved on. Eventually.**

**John is not dead to Sherlock. Sherlock has spent the past three years terrified the Moriarty isn't dead and that he's going to do something to John. He's been watching over John, but he wasn't able to touch him, talk to him, drink his tea, and now he's back and John is being forgiving? Think of Sherlock's childhood. You would cry too.**

**Anyway, sorry for the rant.**

**-Alex **


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE- THE BEGINNING  
In which John finds out just how, exactly, Sherlock survived.

John jerked away from Sherlock, unsure what he felt about what was about to happen. He looked at Sherlock and realized his eyes were still closed, almost as if he was irritated. John wouldve laughed, except there was a hyperventilating elderly woman behind him that needed to be dealt with.  
He turned to Mrs. Hudson and put a hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort her. "Its all right, Mrs. Hudson, calm down," he mumered.  
"Sh-sh-sherlock! Do you see him too, John?" She whispered, clutching his hand.  
"Yes."  
Mrs. Hudson pushed past him to where Sherlock was still sitting, but he had opened his eyes. She tentatively reached out a hand and brushed his cheekbone. "Youre so peaky," she muttered, and then stood up decisively. "Im going to make some tea," she announced, and walked into the kitchen.  
Sherlock watched her go with a bemused look on his face. "That went much better than expected," he said, more to himself than John. John just stared at him.  
Sherlock looked up, and, seeing Johns face, sighed. "Alright, youve got questions."  
John nodded. He had about ten million of them, but he had to ask the one hed been asking in his head since he walked in the door.  
"How?"  
Sherlock studied him, as if trying to decide how to say it. "It was a drug." He said. "Fairly new. It was supposed to slow my blood flow until Molly could take care of my wounds. I was in a private hospital for weeks, but it was worth it."  
"Molly was in on it?"  
"Of course."  
John swallowed as he remembered Molly at the funeral- hed never known she was such a good actress. "Who else?"  
Sherlock studied him again. "Irene. Shes good at dissapearing."  
John allowed himself a chuckle. "Im surprised you havent shot her. Three years without a case. Mustve been torture."  
It was then that Mrs. Hudson came back with the tea. John gratefully took his, and Mrs. Hudson held the cup in Sherlocks face until he took it.  
John decided that was enough questions for now. The rest could wait until later. Right now all he wanted to do was watch Sherlock, be reminded of how his lips looked when he took a sip of tea, how his curls fell into his aquamarine eyes when he tilted his head.  
John smiled. "Molly should be in Hollywood."  
And then he watched in awe as those perfect lips drew up like a bow.


	4. Chapter 4

CASE ONE: THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

CHAPTER FOUR- THE GINGER BUISINESS MAN  
In which John and Sherlock receive their first case since the Fall.

The next few days passed peacefully. Sherlock discussed with John how to un-dead a person, and on the second day it was revealed to Lestrade. Sherlock needed a case horribly, but it had been more than three years since the last one, and he could wait a few days.  
It came around that on the fourth day Sherlock and John were in the flat alone for the first time since that first day.  
At fist all they did was sit in their respective chairs and sip tea, enjoying the silence, and just the knowledge that the other was there. But then John asked the question that Sherlock had been hoping he wouldnt ask.  
"Why?"  
Sherlock swallowed. There were so many things that John didnt know, so many things Sherlock didnt want to reveal. John didnt know that Sherlock suspected what Moriarty would do when he set up the meeting on the rooftop of St. Marys. John didnt know about Moriartys death- after all, his body had been miraculously removed from the rooftop, along with all evidence of him even exsisting.  
And he especially didnt know what Sherlock had felt on the rooftop that day- and that was something Sherlock wanted to keep to himself, because the pain he felt when he hit the pavement didnt even compare.  
John looked at him expectantly. Sherlock swallowed again.  
"Moriarty...he... threatened you. And Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson," His voice cracked, but he kept going, hoping that John hadnt noticed. "He said that his men had to see me die, or..." he trailed off, watching for Johns reaction.  
John seemed to remember something. "But you said that you survived by taking a drug," he said. "How did you know to take it?"  
Sherlock couldnt seem to get rid of whatever was in his throat. Might as well tell him now, Sherlock, he thought, and then told John everything.  
After he was finished, John stared open mouthed at him. "You...knew?"  
"I suspected," Sherlock replied.  
"But- three years, Sherlock?" John whispered.  
"I had to make absolutely sure that Moriarty was dead. I was sure that there was some piece of evidence that I was missing, but- hes gone, Im sure of it." Sherlock said decisively.  
John sighed. "I should be awfully angry at you right now, but honestly all I care about is that youre here, and youre not leaving again." Then hurriedly tacked on- "Right?"  
Sherlock took a deep breath. "Yes."

Ever since the article about Sherlock was put out- for that was the way they had decided to bring him back to life- clients had been pouring in, more often than not coming up with silly cases just to look at Sherlock Holmes, the detective who came back from the dead.  
However, a few weeks after Sherlocks "rebirth" something interesting came up. John had just been to the grocery, and when he returned Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, talking to a stout, rather obese man, who had a head full of shocking red hair. He was dressed rather nicely, in a three piece suit. John tried to examine him like Sherlock would, but he coundnt see anything peculiar about the man- all he seemed to be was a classic buissiness man, and all that set him apart was his fiery- if rather balding- head.  
When Sherlock saw John, he pulled him into the kitchen, and said, "You couldnt have come at a better time, John. I finally have a case!" He exclaimed. "A rather interesting one, too."  
"What is it?"  
Sherlock grinned excitedly. "He hasnt gotten very far into his story, why dont you come and listen?"  
He led John back into the living room, where the man was waiting. "Mr. Wilson, this is my partner, Dr. John Watson. Im sure you know him," he introduced. "And John, this is Jabez Wilson, our client." John ignored the exotic name and shook the mans hand strongly.  
John and Sherlock sat down, Sherlock pressing his fingers together in front of his chin. "Not much to deduce about him, John, other than the fact that hes been writing a lot lately and that hes been to China." He said.  
"What the-" Jabez exclaimed. "How could you possibly know about China?" He asked.  
Sherlock pointed to the mans left wrist, where John saw a small tattoo of a fish. "That tattoo couldve only been done in China- that technique of painting is quite isolated to China."  
"And the writing?"  
Sherlock sighed. "Well, the cuff of your right sleeve- Im assuming youre right-handed, yes?" The man nodded. "Well, its rather shiny, isnt it? Comes from rubbing it against a table, in other words, writing. And theres also that soft patch on your left elbow, which is from resting it on a surface without moving it for a while. Again, it points to writing. And quite a bit, I might add."  
Jabez shook his head. "Ive heard many things about you, Mr. Holmes, but I never imagined you were this good." He said. "It was completely right, all of it."  
Sherlock nodded impatiently. "Right then, enough small talk, show John the ad," he said.  
Jabez handed John a newspaper he hadnt noticed the man had been holding until now. He pointed to an ad in the corner, and John read it under his breath.  
"On account of the late Hezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsilvania, there is a vacancy open for a member of the Red- Headed League, for a salary of four pounds a week. All red-headed men of at least 21 years old are eligible." He looked up. "So?"  
"Well, go on, tell your story," said Sherlock to Jabez.  
The man began to speak. "Well, it started about two months ago, when this newspaper was distributed." He began. "I own a small buisiness, nothing special. I used to have two assistants, but buisiness hasnt been great, and now I can only afford one. My assistant- Vincent Spaulding is his name- came to me with this ad. He said he wished he could change his hair color, and when I asked him why, he showed it to me and said I was very qualified for it, because, well, youve seen my hair- it made good pay, very little work, Vincent said, and I could use the money, so we went together, an waited in a dreadfully long l-" he stopped, and John looked at Sherlock, who was beginning to get a bit impatient.  
"Just- skip ahead a bit, will you?" He said to Jabez, and the man nodded.  
"Well, anyway, after waiting, this man who said his name was Duncan Ross accepted me. I think it was because of my hair- it was by far the reddest in there. He told me that all I had to do was copy from the encyclopedia- and not leave the building. It seemed easy enough, so I came in every morning at two and left every afternoon at four. He never checked in on me- Duncan Ross- that is. It went on like this for eight of so weeks, and then suddenly, one day, I went in, and, on the door, there was a sign. I have it here, you can look at it."  
He held up a white piece of cardboard. Sherlock and John read it silently.  
The Red-Headed League has been discontinued.  
They then studied the sullen face behind it, looked at each other, and burst out in a roar of laughter.  
"I dont see whats so funny!" Jabez exclaimed.  
"Youll have to forgive us, Mr. Wilson, its just...go on."  
Jabez looked at them for a second, then sighed. "Well, I went down yo the landlord and asked him about it, but he didnt seem to know any Duncan Ross, or a Red-Headed League. So I asked him about the man in Number 4, and he said the mans name was William... William something, I dont remember, and that he had moved out the day before. So I went to the address he told me, and no one there knew about a Mr. Ross or a William. I went to my assistant- but he just told me to wait. But that wasnt enough for me, so I came here."  
"Hmmm," Sherlock said, obviously deep in thought. "Now, tell us about your assistant- Spaulding, wasnt it?"  
Jabez cleared his throat. "Yes. He was really into photography. He was also into developing the photos himself, always going down into the basement for hours on end. Uh... dark haired, and... he has a splash on his forehead, from acid, I should think."  
Sherlock stood up excitedly. "Peirced ears?" He asked. Jabez nodded. "Is he still with you?" The man nodded again. "Well then. Ive got all I need for now."  
He led Jabez to the door and let him out before turning to John, and saying, "Well?"  
"Well...you seem excited about it."  
"I am!" Sherlock exclaimed.  
"What do we do now?"  
Sherlock thought. "I need to go to my mind palace. Bring my nicotine patches. Its a four patch problem."


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE- THE LUNCH DATE  
In which Sherlock and John make a trip to the buisiness of Mr. Jabez Wilson, and have lunch.

An hour and four nicotine patches later, John and Sherlock were in a cab on the way to who knows were, at least from Johns perspective. Sherlock seemed to know exactly where they were headed, and he impatiently tapped his toe against the floor of the cab.  
After a ten minute drive, they had reached a brick building. Sherlock paid the cabbie, and they walked up to the front door. Upon the clouded glass was printed their clients name and buisiness. Sherlock did nothing for a few moments, and then stomped aggressively on the pavement in front of the door. John jumped.  
"What did you do that for?"  
"Oh, no reason," Sherlock replied, and then knocked on the door.  
A young man opened it. Sherlock asked him directions to the local bank, the man answered, and Sherlock turned to the street to call a cab. "What do you think about Italian, John?" He asked."Im starved."  
John just gaped at him.  
"What? I should think you know me better by know than to be amazed, although I do admit I am quite brilliant."

John and Sherlock found an Italian restraunt named Angelos not far from Mr. Wilsons buisiness. The hostess was a woman of about fifty, and John ignored the look she gave them when Sherlock asked for a table for two.  
It wasnt until after they had ordered their meals that John asked what had been on his mind.  
"Why on Earth did you ask that man for directions to a bank? We didnt even go to a bank. And why go to Wilsons buisiness if you werent going to question the assistant?"  
"Oh, I didnt want to question him." Replied Sherlock. "All I needed was to see the knees of his trousers."  
John knew better than to question Sherlock any more. "What did you get, anyway? You ordered for me."  
"They had a couples meal. Steak, potatoes, and... garlic bread, I think," he saw Johns face and exclaimed defensively, "What? It was cheaper!"  
John sighed. "Now people will definetly talk. The hostess already thought we were gay, now the waitress does, too."  
Sherlock looked at John for a second, then chuckled. "Youre hilarious, John."  
John wouldve replied with a snide remark, but that was when their waitress returned with their food, smiling in the exact same way the hostess had. John looked pointedly at Sherlock.  
"What have we got on our plate for the rest of the day, Sherlock?" John asked, giving up and cutting into the steak.  
"Nothing really, except I was thinking that we could go see that romantic movie that just came out in theaters," Sherlock replied, just as a waitress walked by with a couple she was leading to a table. She looked back, shocked at first, but then got that knowing look John knew all too well.  
This time Sherlock burst out laughing when he saw Johns face.  
"I want to go home and travel to violin land, where there are no ginger clients to annoy us," Sherlock said, trying to control his laughter.  
John took a deep breath and took a bite of garlic bread.  
"Sounds good to me."


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX- THE STAKEOUT  
In which John, Sherlock, and Lestrade hide out amongst boxes of French gold, and arrest royalty.

The rest of the day and the next morning passed without even a mention of the Red Headed League or Sherlocks strange actions the afternoon before.  
At around eight, when the sky had darkened, John emerged from his room to find Sherlock and a Lestrade who had not been there ten minutes before, suited up in coats and scarves. Lestrade was laughing, and when John realized Sherlock was telling him about lunch at Angelos, he scowled.  
Sherlock noticed him, and said, "Well, get your coat on, John. Were going out."

After a ten minute drive in a cab, the three arrived at a large building that John realized was the bank that Sherlock had asked about the day before. A greying man led them in with a quiet, "Here you are, Mr. Holmes," and walked away.  
John snorted. "As always, Mycrofts name continues to get you into places you shouldnt be," he said.  
"Oh, no, this time it was the name of a certain consulting detective that has come back from the dead," Sherlock whispered, and they both snickered. Lestrade rolled his eyes.  
After following Lestrade down a dark, winding, hallway, and two flights of stairs, they came into a giant, cellar- like room, in which were stacks and stacks of crates, as well as ornate rugs all over the floor. Sherlock again stomped aggressively on the floor, and this time a low, hollow sound echoed around the large room. Sherlock nodded proudly, then turned to John and Lestrade.  
"Lestrade, you did what I told you too?" He asked, and Lestrade nodded.  
"Six officers waiting out front. Not exactly happy about it, but theyre there."  
Sherlock then turned to John. "And you have your gun, John?" John nodded, still not exactly sure why he WAS carrying a revolver in his right boot. "They should be here any minute. If they fire, John, dont hesitate to shoot them down."  
John did not ask who was about to be here, but he cocked his revolver and sat down behind some crates with Sherlock. Lestrade hid on the other side of the room, near the door.  
Sherlock looked at John. "Did you hear what happened the other day?" He asked quietly. John shrugged. "They legalized gay marriage in London."  
John sharply turned his head to look at Sherlock. Neither of them spoke until Sherlock turned his head to look over the crates.  
"Listen, about what happened when you came back-" John started, but he didnt get to finish, because Sherlock was leaping over the crates and grabbing the collar of a man who had just crawled out of the floor, and Lestrade had grabbed another man around the knees as he tried to dive back into the hole from which he had come. As Lestrade pulled the man out of the hole, he recognised him as the young assistant to Mr. Wilson. He assumed the red-headed man Sherlock now had in a headlock was Duncan Ross or William, or whatever his name was. The man was now complaining profusely.  
"I would ask you to please take your filthy hands off me, you peasant!" He exclaimed. "I have royal blood, you know, and you should treat me as such!"  
"Well then, if you please, sir," Sherlock said sarcastically, as Lestrade pulled handcuffs out of his pocket and snapped them on both the criminals wrists,"If you could just march upstairs so we can take your Highness to the police station, that would be just dandy."  
John followed the four men upstairs to where, sure enough, six officers were waiting. After the prisoners had been loaded into the cars, Lestrade had driven off with the officers, Sherlock had called a cab and the blogger and consulting detective were on their way home, Sherlock turned to John. "You wanted to say something to me in the bank?"  
John felt his throat close up and he swallowed. "Oh, it was nothing, really." He said, and then hurriedly changed the subject. "You have yet to tell me how a man with red hair and a newspaper ad turned into a bank robbery. And what couldve been so valuable in those crates?"  
"French gold, John."  
John looked at him, motioning for him to continue.  
"Well, when Mr. Wilson told us about his assistant going down into the basement for hours on end, I suspected, but what really confirmed it was the knees on his trousers. Did you see them? They were nicked up and soiled. He was digging a lot. And when I found out a bank was just a few streets away, it wasnt hard to put two and two together."  
"And the Red Headed League?"  
"I suspect they just wanted to get our Mr. Wilson out of they way for a few hours each day."  
"And how did you know it would happen tonight?" John asked.  
"Once they had let down Mr. Wilson, they had obviously finished the tunnel. They had to do it soon, or they ran the risk of it being found. Tonight was a perfect time."  
They were silent for a few moments, then John asked, "Why did you tell me that? About the marriage, I mean."  
Sherlock turned to face the window.  
"No reason."


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN- THE MORGUE ATTENDANT In which Sherlock and John see Molly for the first time since Sherlock's "rebirth", and the boys have a domestic.

It had been six days since the case of the Red Headed League had been solved, and Sherlock was getting antsy. When John came out of his room that morning and found Sherlock stabbing a wall with his spear, he sighed. "We're going out today, Sherlock, whether you like it or not,'' and then walked away. Sherlock studied the wallpaper on the tip of his spear for a moment, then sighed, and leaned the spear against one of the horns of the head on the wall. "Hold this, for me, will you?" ...

When they got in a cab ten minutes later, neither of them seemed to have any idea of where they were going. When the cabbie asked, Sherlock said the first place that came to mind. Once they had started driving, John pulled down the divider and turned to Sherlock. "Why are we going there?" He hissed. Sherlock thought for a moment. It was Tuesday, therefore...

"Molly."

...

When they pulled up a large white building, John tried to look at the pavement as they walked to the doors, but he couldn't ignore to puddles of blood that seemed to be flashing over his vision of the clean concrete. He then tried looking at the sky, but that didn't work either, and eventually he ended up falling behind Sherlock and watching the back of his head. After several flights of stairs and a long, sterile hallway, John remembered very well, they passed through the double doors they had passed through several times before, John and Sherlock walked into a room, which contained four silver tables, a dead body, and the back of a familiar ponytailed head. "Molly," Sherlock said, rather loudly, and John watched with a smile on his face as Molly jumped an impressive height into the air. She spun around. "Sherlock!" She said, smiling nervously. "And.. John," she added, and John knew she was thinking of the times she had seen him after the Fall. John didn't know what he looked like, but it must've been horrible. Sherlock strolled up to the table she was working at, the farthest one from the door, and casually leaned over the edge to look at the elderly woman lying there. "Cause?" He asked, as if the past three years hadn't passed and Sherlock and Molly were still bonding over corpses. Molly stared at him for a moment. "Um, old age, is what I was told," she said, "but, um, her daughter is convinced that it was of a broken heart. Seems her husband died two months ago." Sherlock snorted and John scowled. "Um, Sherlock, why are you here, anyway?" Molly asked. Sherlock looked at John for a second, then back to Molly. "I was poking holes in the living room walls, so John made me get out of the house. This was the first place I thought of." He said. "But of course, if you don't want us here, we can leave." "No, no, no!" Molly exclaimed. "Its quite alright." She pulled Sherlock to her side and said in what was probably supposed to be a whisper, but John could hear clearly, "You told him?" "No, Molly, can't you see I'm just following the ghost of Sherlock Holmes like a raving lunatic?" John said sarcastically. "In fact, I think we have something in common. You're talking to him too." Molly giggled nervously, and Sherlock smirked. "Molly's just enjoyed having me to herself, John," he laughed. Snorting, John walked over to the table. "It's been a month since he told me, Molly. We've already solved a case. Where have you been, under a rock?" "Something like that," Molly muttered. The three were silent for a few moments, then Sherlock said, "Well, if there aren't any interesting corpses here, we'll just be leaving. Besides, I don't think John will last very long in here with you and me," and he ceremoniously pushed open the double doors and left. John and Molly looked at each other for a moment, then John shrugged and Molly was left alone with a heartbroken old woman and a stomach full of termites. ... "What'd you mean by 'John won't last very long in here with you and me?" Sherlock smirked and swiveled around to face John. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing? Sherlock, you've been saying that a lot recently, and doing a lot of weird things you never did before. And this case? You didn't tell me any of your deductions until the criminals were in a patroller on their way to be behind bars. And frankly, Sherlock, I don't understand." Sherlock sighed. "All I meant by it is that you might be jealous of her because she got to spend the last three years with me and you didn't," Sherlock said. John narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, I would. But whose fault is that, Sherlock?" Sherlock didn't know how to reply. John snorted. "That's what I thought."


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT- STIR-CRAZY In which Sherlock gets bored. VERY bored.

"You could go out, you know."

John stared at Sherlock, who was in the same position he was an hour ago.

"We've been sitting here for an hour and don't think you've even blinked."

Sherlock slowly turned his head to John, and blinked his eyes very slowly. John snorted.

"Very clever, Sherlock."

Sherlock leaned against the back of his chair and sighed. "Don't want to go out. No cases. Mrs. Hudson's gone," he muttered.

They sat in silence for another few moments, John still looking at Sherlock. After the first week of Sherlock being back, John had stopped trying to memorize the way Sherlock walked, or drank tea, but he had never stopped admiring the dark curls on Sherlock's head, especially the little ones at the nape of his neck that John only got to see fully when Sherlock tilted his head. He was doing this now, and John suddenly had a strong urge to reach out and touch them, wrap them around his finger. He was reaching out without realizing it, and once he had, it was too late.

John's hand was far away from Sherlock's neck when Sherlock had looked up, but now his fingertips were mere inches away from Sherlock's cupid's bow. He froze, unable to look away from the aquamarine eyes that seemed to pin him in place. Before he could move away, Sherlock had leaned forward and pressed his lips to the corner of John's mouth.

Johns eyes widened and his hands moved of their own accord, pushing Sherlock away, and then it was his feet's turn, carrying him down the stairs and into the street. It was after he had gotten in a cab that he realized he had wanted to stay.

...

Sherlock watched John bolt down the stairs, and winced when he heard the door slam.

He honestly didn't know why he had done that. He raised a hand as if to touch his lips, but changed directions at the last minute, raising it to run his fingers through his hair. This was going to come back and punch him in the gut later.

...

John didn't know he had given the cabbie Harry's address until they pulled up in front of her brownstone. He slid out of the car and rang the bell, watching the cab drive away. He heard the door open and turned to see his ginger- headed sister. At first he didn't recognize her- her hair was naturally dirty blonde like his. The fiery color she had chosen reminded him of his last case, and he remembered why he was here.

"John!" She exclaimed. "This is a lovely surprise!"

He smiled half-heartedly. "I need to talk to you."

...

After he had finished telling his story, Harry chuckled "I knew it," she said.

"Knew what?"

"Frankly, I think I've known it for longer than this," she muttered.

"Known what, Harry?"

She gaped at him. "You don't know? YOU came to ME, your lesbian sister, asking for advise. Put two and two together, John."

John scowled. "Are you implying what I think you're implying?"

She smiled. "No, John. I'm telling you the truth."

...

John ended up having dinner with Harry and her girlfriend( of three months, John was shocked that he didn't know) and headed home at about nine o'clock. When he walked into the flat, he was assaulted by a very angry Sherlock.

...

"Where have you been? It's been hours!" Sherlock stared accusingly at John. John rolled his eyes and pushed past Sherlock.

"Calm down, Sherlock. I was with Harry."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot into his hairline. Harry- but... that was Johns sister, right? The one he didn't get along with? "But-"

John spun around to face Sherlock. "Listen, I have no idea what happened back there, nor do I want to know." He hissed. "So can we just forget it?"

Suddenly, for some unknown reason, Sherlock felt very hurt. He was going to apologize when John got home, but that was before he had spent five hours at a sister's house the he supposedly didn't even like. Sherlock then realized something that made his lips turn up into a smile. He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, John. It's just I've only just remembered something about your sister that makes her very convenient in this situation," he said, smirking.

John looked at him, confused for a moment, then scowled. "Oh, shut up, Sherlock."

Sherlock was beginning to feel like an older brother who had found an embarrassing photo just before the little brother's girlfriend was coming over. He had the upper hand in this argument, and he was liking it.

"No, no, no, John," he said. "I can only think of one reason you would go to her," he started to chuckle. "But I'm not going to say it because I think you already know."

There was a few moments in which John was glaring at Sherlock and Sherlock was smirking back, and then John stormed out of the room and Sherlock chuckled.

He loved winning.


	9. Chapter 9

CASE TWO- THE CARDBOARD BOX

CHAPTER NINE- CRUSHING In which John and Sherlock finally resolve their issues, and admire some ears.

John was a little more than irritated. It had been two days since he had gone to see Harry, and he hated that Sherlock had won the argument. Granted, he usually won, but that was beside the point. John knew he was being childish in giving Sherlock the silent treatment, but after the first few hours, Sherlock had joined in, so that was besides the point as well.

They were both sitting, reading, and drinking tea, but due to the argument, John was doing this in the kitchen. After realizing that he had read the same sentence more than five times, John slammed the newspaper down on the table and glared at Sherlock, who seemed perfectly at ease with the situation. 'This is getting silly,' John thought.

"You're right."

John jumped. It took him a couple seconds to realize it was Sherlock who had spoken. "What?"

"It is getting silly," Sherlock replied.

John sat up. "Did you- did you just read my mind?" He whispered.

"Its written all over your face, John. I can read you like a book," Sherlock said, without looking up from his paper. John was about to reply when his phone and Sherlock's dinged at the same time. It was a text message from Lestrade.

'I have some ears for you to look at.'

John stood up and put on his coat while Sherlock grabbed his scarf. "I'm afraid to ask," he muttered.

...

After a good fifteen-minute ride in a cab, John and Sherlock arrived at a brick house, which had a generous lawn and gardener trimming the rose bushes along the picket fence.

They rang the bell, and it was opened by a little girl in a My Little Pony t-shirt. She turned around and yelled down the hallway, "Mummy, two strange men are here!"

John turned to Sherlock, who had wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Its a good thing you're not going to be a father someday," he said.

"Who told you that?" Sherlock replied.

"It's written all over your face, Sherlock."

It was then that Lestrade came to the door. "Come in," he said impatiently. "I don't think I can stand this woman a second longer."

He led them inside a beautifully furnished living room, where a young woman was sitting, hands folded neatly in her lap. "Have you come for them? They're in the shed, the dreadful things. Just take them away, will you?"

"You would be talking about the... ears, I suppose?" John asked.

She shuddered. "Of course. Now please, just take them."

Lestrade sighed. "Of course we will, but I wanted Sherlock here to see them first."

"Why here?"

"In case he wanted to ask any questions."

"I don't know anything!" She sobbed. "I just want to get them off my property."

Sherlock didn't seem to notice her outburst. "Well then, we'll just have a look at them," and left the woman crying into her hands.

Lestrade led them out to the shed in the backyard, and took out a cardboard box, brown paper, and the string the box must've been tied with. Sherlock examined to box, paper, and string very closely for a minute, before taking a seat on the edge of the shed and turning to John. He held up the string. "Tell me your observations, John," he said.

John looked the string closely. "It's tarred," he said. "And the knot is peculiar. Like a sailor tied it."

"Good," said Sherlock, and held up the paper, "and this?"

John looked at it the same way, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He shrugged.

"Smells like coffee," Sherlock said, sniffing it. "The address- here- not very neat handwriting, and the name of the city has been incorrectly spelled-i instead of y- and then written over. So were dealing with a man, limited education, not familiar with this town."

He took out the ears as he spoke, looking them over. "Not a pair. Double murder, then."

"How do you know it's a murder?" Lestrade asked. "It could easily be a practical joke, some medical students sending them from labs."

Sherlock smiled. "Oh, but its not, see? If these ears were from a lab, there would be preservatives in them to keep them from rotting, which there isn't. And they're also quite fresh, and cut off with a blunt instrument, which wouldn't happen if a student had done it."

John felt a thrill run through him at the excited tone in his friend's voice. 'Dear God,' he thought.

Sherlock started talking, and John realized the beginning of one of his rants. "We know that this woman has led a quiet and respectable life here. Why on Earth, then, should a criminal sent her proof of his crime, because, unless she is a rather talented actress, she knows even less of the case than we do?"

He picked up the ears once more and studied them. "One of these is female, small and pierced. The other is a man's, sunburnt, but also pierced. Obviously dead, or we would have heard about them before now. Today is Friday, the packet was posted on Thursday, and therefore, the murderer happened on Tuesday or Wednesday, more likely Wednesday, judging by the freshness. We can take it that the sender of our lovely package is our man, but he must have had some strong incentive to sending her this package. It must have been to tell her the deed was done, but why? To hurt her? But in that case she would know who it was, and that wouldn't make sense, because if she wanted to shield the murderer, she could easily get rid of the ears, and if she didn't want to save him, she would've given a name," About halfway through the rant his voice had lowered to a mutter, and John had to lean in to hear. Suddenly Sherlock jumped up and started walking quickly towards the house.

"I have a few questions for our client."

As Sherlock and John walked in the back door, the woman was telling a police officer, "You can stop questioning me! I'm convinced the package wasn't meant for me!"

"I'm coming to the same conclusion," said Sherlock, making the woman jump and spin around in her chair. Sherlock sat down next to the woman, and John watched his face get even more joyous as he watched her profile. "You have two sisters?"

"How do you know that?"

Sherlock jerked his thumb at a picture over his shoulder of the woman with two women who were unmistakenly related to her.

"Why, yes, those are my sisters, Sarah and Mary."

"And this," said Sherlock, pointing to another, smaller frame, "Is the youngest, with a sailor, by his dress, who is her...fiancée?"

"You're quick to observe."

"Its my job."

The woman sighed. "You're right. That's Jim Browner. She was married to him, I think... two months after that photo was taken. They used to be very close, but now I think they're on the verge of divorce."

Sherlock frowned. "Why is that?"

"Well, he drinks. Or he used to, they never call anymore."

"And your other sister?" Sherlock asked. "I'm guessing you don't live together?"

"Oh, no! We tried, but she has an awful temper and she had to move out."

Sherlock thought for a moment, and opened his mouth to say something, when Lestrade rushed in.

"We've got bodies."


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN- THE SOLUTION

In which John and Sherlock observe the bodies of the victims, and John and Sherlock both find a solution.

Sherlock leaned over the body of a large man, peering at the gaping hole on one side of his head and then observing his one ear very closely.

John looked at the bluish bodies of the two victims, one a very pretty woman and the other a large, sunburnt man, even after the oxygen deprived tint of his skin.

"How were they found again?" John asked.

Molly looked up from the woman she was tending to. "Some poor fisherman spotted a boat sunk in the lake. Him and some other men pulled it out and these two were tied to it."

"Oh."

Sherlock sighed. It looks like... hit in the head with a blunt object, probably a club, then purposefully sunk in the lake to hide evidence. The ears were intentionally cut off, though, which means we've found our ear victims." He said. "Mary," he said, pointing out the woman.

"Our client's sister?" John asked.

"The very one." Sherlock replied. "And him..." he said, gesturing to the man, "we'll find out who he is eventually."

John studied Sherlock, who was being very silent. "So...what do we do now?"

"I need to think. Let's go home."

...

John didn't think that Sherlock was thinking about the case at all. He was staring blankly at the fire, one leg crossed over the other, fiddling with the strings of his violin.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock started, as if he had just remembered John was there. "John?"

"Yes?"

"Was the prospect of kissing me so horrible?" John's jaw dropped. "Do I repel you that much?"

"No, I just,- its just," John stumbled over his words. He felt his throat closing up. "I thought we were over this?"

Sherlock didn't reply. Then suddenly he was out of his chair with his lips pressed to John's. John froze. Sherlock pulled away, studied John's face, and then sighed. "That's what I thought."

John watched Sherlock walk into his room and then slammed his head against the back of his chair.

...

Sherlock rose the next morning with a purpose. He was gulping down a cup of scalding hot tea and pulling on his coat before John had even come out of his room. He paced, agitated, around the sitting room while John slid on his shoes. When they finally got out of the house, it was 8:47 am and Mrs. Hudson was stumbling up the stairs in her pink flowered house coat.

Sherlock watched John as he refused to look at Sherlock, staring intently at the scenery he'd seen a thousand times. Sherlock could tell he didn't recognise the address Sherlock had given the cabbie- but even if he did recognise it he was giving too much attention to the gloomy streets of London to care.

They pulled up in front of a house much like the one they had been to the previous day, in fact not even two streets away. However, when the door was opened it was not a small girl, but a man in a long coat with his hair gelled back.

Sherlock had put on his bumbling idiot face without realizing it, and came up with a script off the top of his head.

"Hello," he said, making his voice shake.

"I'm a friend of Mary and Sarah," he purposely choked on Mary. "I just wanted to see how Sarah is doing?"

The man looked at Sherlock with an annoyed look on his face. "Ms. Crushing has severe brain damage. She wont be seeing anyone but family." He then pushed past Sherlock to a black Mustang parked in front of the house.

Sherlock watched the man go with a smirk. He pulled out his phone and foaled Lestrade. "I've got him. Jim Browner. Go arrest him, you're good at it."

...

The ride home was just as silent as the ride there, as was the walk inside the flat. Sherlock was walking inside the kitchen to get something to eat, his chest swelling the way it always did after he solved a case. He pushed aside a bag of fingers and pulled out an apple, biting into it as he turned away from the fridge. John was standing behind him, his right hand resting on the table.

"The prospect wasn't horrible," John said in a whisper. "I just never thought there was one."

He then walked past Sherlock and into his room.


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN- THE SAILOR

In which Sherlock explains the case to John, and John has an encounter.

Things were still awkward, but at least they could speak to each other now. John was proud of himself for how far he had followed Sherlock in the case, but he was lost at how Sherlock had figured it out from a snide remark from a doctor.

Today was peaceful. The case was solved, and there was still a few days before Sherlock started getting antsy.

They were at a bar, actually drinking- which was something that was special; they didn't get to do it often. After ordering their drinks, they sat in silence until both of them turned to each other simultaneously. "How did you figure it out?" John asked, at the same time Sherlock said, "It was meant for Sarah."

"What?" John asked.

"The ears," Sherlock replied. "They were meant for Sarah. Do you know our client's first name?"

John frowned. "No."

"It's Samantha," said Sherlock. "The package was addressed to S. Crushing. Remember how Samantha said her and her sister tried to live together, but Sarah had too much of a temper? The killer thought they were still bunking together. Hasn't been in touch for a while, but still knows the family." He explained. "I'm thinking it was a petty case of mixed feelings. The man that was killed with Mary wasn't her fiancee- so, she was unfaithful. And why would the killer try to send Sarah the ears? Because she didn't approve of him and encouraged Mary to leave him."

"But how did you know it was meant for Sarah?" Sherlock smirked. She has "severe brain damage"," he said. "She knew Mary was dead and she knew who killed her."

John nodded slowly and was about to take a sip of his beer when someone tapped his shoulder and said brightly, "Hi!"

He watched as Sherlock's proud smirk drooped as he saw who was behind John. He turned to face a woman of about thirty, who was ruddy-faced, blonde, and obviously drunk.

"You're John Watson, aren't you?" She said, slurring her words. "I'm A-a-angela!" She pulled a slip of alcohol-stained paper out of her pocket and clumsily stuffed it inside John's breast pocket. Angela then held her hand up in what was vaugely a "call-me" sign.

John felt Sherlock place his hand on John's shoulder. "You're cut off, A-a-angela," he said snidely. "Go get someone to drive you home." Angela's jaw dropped, and she stumbled away. Sherlock turned to John. "Come on," he said, directing John by the shoulder to the door. "Lets get you out of here before another insignificant woman gives you her phone number."

John smiled. "Oh, I don't know," he teased. "I sort of liked her." Sherlock looked sharply back at him. When he saw John's laughing expression he scowled. Letting go of John's shoulder, he strode away stiffly.

"You're losing your edge, Sherlock," John called after him.

...

When they reached the flat, John remembered something. "I never got to finish my drink. I don't even think we paid."

"Oh, that's alright," Sherlock replied. "We still have those beers, remember?"

John thought. "No, that blasted cat that keeps sneaking in through the bathroom window got in and broke them. I think I threw them away... a year after you..."

John trailed off as they climbed the stairs. Sherlock watched his back. He was wearing that sweater- the oatmeal colored one.

"Sometimes," John said softly, "I try to imagine what I would do if you really died. Not fake- really dead. It was three years, and I still wasn't over it. Would I have ever moved on? Gotten married? Had a normal life?"

He turned around. "And then I think- I don't want a normal life. I'm at my happiest when I'm running around with you."

He saw Sherlock moving closer, and he didn't move away. He was still, confused emotions jumbling about in his head, waiting for something that never came.

Sherlock pushed past him to open the door, and left John alone in the stairwell without saying a word.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12: Epiphany

In which John has an epiphany.

It was no secret that John was good with the ladies. He always had been, and until now, he was certain he would be until he decided to settle down. Now, everything was different. Before, he had been able to get what he want, but now, the one thing he needed, he couldn't have.

He couldn't bring himself to leave his room. He couldn't even find the motivation to pull himself out of bed and get dressed. His eyes rolled slowly over to the alarm clock on his bedside table, which glowed red with the numbers 12: 54. Groaning, John pushed himself up from the mattress and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He listened closely to the silent flat- had Sherlock left? He was never this quiet…

John swung his legs over the side of his bed and straightened his shirt. His subconscious was panicking- _no, John, you don't want to face him, no_- But his stomach was rumbling and there was and acidic taste in his mouth that made him pull open his door and stumble down the stairs.

The kitchen was empty, as was the living room. John sighed and walked over to start the tea kettle. That was when he heard something he had never heard before- at least not in this flat.

A sigh.

Coming from the only consulting detective in the world's room

John froze, his hand stretched out to grab a packet of tea, his mouth hanging open. A few seconds later another sigh emerged- long, breathy, and definitely not one that was able to escape the mouth of a wakeful man.

John slowly edged himself towards the room, thankful when the door opened smoothly and without sound. He peered around the corner and froze again.

John had not been in Sherlock's room since he had returned. The pure scent of Sherlock hit him like an armful of bricks- a mix of cigarette smoke, London fog, and something John thought only existed on Sherlock's coat. But the smell was nothing compared to the source, sleeping soundly on the bed.

His mouth was open, his lips forming a small_ o. _The comforter rested around his hips, his shirt riding up to reveal a small glimpse of ivory stomach. He had his arms stretched out under the pillow, where ebony curls tumbledin all directions, and lashes cast long shadows on cheekvones that rally shouldn't have been legal.

John stumbled back into the wall, sliding down until he was slumped in a heap at the foot. His breath came in short bursts, and his chest felt as if it were about to explode.

It was at this moment Dr. John Watson realized he was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

"Shit," he said, and fled.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13: Silence

In which John almost succeeds in avoiding Sherlock.

John had managed to successfully escape confronting Sherlock for three days. He snuck food late at night and early in the morning, returning to his room to brood about what he was going to do. Or, at least, that's what he would've liked to be doing- mostly he was just imagining the small glimpse of ivory skin he had seen the other day and panicking at what his body's reaction was to it.

For goodness sakes, it was Rosy Latimer in sixth grade all over again, except worse.

He was scare to face Sherlock because he had seen Sherlock's abnormal skills- he had been on the receiving end of them more than enough times- and he did not want Sherlock figuring out what was going on inside his head right now. No, sir. Absolutely not.

John gently hopped over the fourth stair- the one that was notorious for letting out a moan when someone breathed on it and a high shriek when anything heavier came in contact. He padded softly into the kitchen and grabbed an apple. He glanced longingly at the tea kettle, but then shook his head, beginning to retreat back upstairs.

"Oh, go ahead. Three days without tea? I should think you'd be going through withdrawal."

John jumped, one foot in the hallway and one still in the kitchen. His hands became abnormally sweaty in an abnormally short time, and he tightened his grip on the apple, not wanting it to slip out of his slick hands.

He slowly stepped back into the kitchen, turning to face the detective, who was sitting in his armchair with his legs crossed. Sherlock smirked. "You should've known you couldn't avoid me forever."

John swallowed. "I wasn't trying to."

Sherlock pushed himself up from his chair, still smirking. "You've always been a terrible liar, John. You think that after knowing you for almost five years I don't realize when you're trying to avoid me?"

John placed the apple on the table, trying to discreetly wipe his hands on his pajama pants. Sherlock settled himself on one of the kitchen chairs.

"PLease, John. I have been craving some tea lately as well."

He reached up to adjust his robe, which brought John's attention to Sherlock's neck( which really was much too tempting in itself) and Sherlock's neck happened to be in close proximity to his lips.

And the last thread keeping John under control snapped.

One second he was four feet away from Sherlock, and the next, his hands were immersed in dark curls and he was kissing Sherlock Holmes, all of a sudden very thankful for the height advantage Sherlock's chair gave him.

Sherlock froze at first, his fingers still wrapped around the collar of his robe, before slowly moving his hand to the place in John's shoulder where it met his neck. Sherlock's lips were even softer than he had imagined and John couldn't get enough of his unique smell and why hadn't he done this sooner?

John wasn't sure how long they were at it- it could've been seconds, minutes, hours- but John could've gone on for much longer when the doorbell rang.


End file.
